Like Clockwork

Like Clockwork

Hi everyone! This short story was born from an idea I had a couple years ago. I just sat down last night and it poured out of me. I'm glad I'm able to share it with all of you. My inspirations for it were Frankenstein and Robecca Steam from the Monster High franchise. I wanted to explore mad science and grief. No particular reason. The idea just seemed interesting to me.

Content Warning:
This story contains themes of grief, death of a child, disinterment (grave digging), body horror, and emotional distress. Reader discretion is advised.

There was a storm the day Becca died.

It was an accident, they said. The roads were slick with rain. The driver may or may not have been on his phone. 

But the collision was deadly. 

Metal tore through muscles and tissue. Bones twisted in impossible angles. 

It all ended with two battered and bruised cars, and a girl who’d never wake up again. 

As Becca’s coffin was lowered into the damp, unholy ground, many gave their condolences.

We’re so sorry for your loss.

If you need anything, just call.

Such a shame, some whispered. Especially after what happened to her mother.

None of this mattered to her father. 

Dr. Steam was the only medical practitioner in Canaan. A prodigy, his mind took him to the Ivies. He eventually returned to the town, helping those in need. He was no stranger to loss. His beloved wife, Nora, died in childbirth. Their daughter, Rebecca, was his only light. Chestnut brown skin, a mirror of her father. Hair that reached for the stars, dyed electric blue. A laugh like fireworks. A smile that could light up this godforsaken town. A brilliant mind that rivaled her father’s. A life now extinguished.

The doctor grieved. 

Longtime patients, Becca’s friends, all visited, sending their condolences. The clinic gave him two weeks of bereavement leave. But as far as Steam was concerned, none of this would bring her back.

For days, Steam closed in on himself. He wandered his house like a ghost, trapped in the liminal. Not living. Not dead. Only existing. Always lingering a little longer at Becca’s room, her laughter echoing faintly from his memory. 

He started sleeping in her room, like he used to when she’d have nightmares. 

He passed his hands over her bookshelf. 

Her black rollerskates still sat at the edge of her bed, covered in stickers. 

The pale pink walls were plastered with posters of her favorite sci-fi movies. In the corner, an artistic rendition of Mary Shelley caught his eye. His gaze lingered, mind wandering to the doomed character and its creator. How something so horrifying was born from grief. A shame, he mused. With the proper intention, it could have been a great success. Realization crept up his spine. No, he thought, shaking his head. It’s not possible…but what if? As he staggered back, an idea took root. A terrifying, crazy, monstrous idea. One only followed in the pages of fiction.

In a mad daze, Steam rushed to the garage. He rummaged through a pile of old garden tools before finding a shovel. It was slightly rusted but would work. He jumped in his car, rushing to the graveyard. He sped, refusing to think. Not about her body. Not about his daughter’s bowels spilled on the same road. 

When he arrived at the graveyard, sense repossessed his body and he slammed on the brakes in the empty lot. Steam sat still, his shaking hands betraying his distress. 

What am I doing?, he thought. 

This is madness. I can’t possibly… 

But then—Becca. Alive, spirited, laughing shot through his mind. 

His vision blurred. A guttural scream tore from his throat as he pounded the steering wheel. 

Becca had done everything right. Good grades, on track to a good university, but most importantly, she had so much life to give.

After her mother’s death, she gave her father a reason to keep going. His little sun. She was too bright to have been snuffed out. 

It. Wasn’t. Fair.

He finally slumped back into the seat, exhaustion ripping ragged breaths from his lungs. Resolve, steely and true, hardened in his mind. 

Luckily for him, the groundskeeper seemed to have completed his rounds. As quietly as he could, Steam grabbed the shovel from the passenger’s seat and made his way to his daughter’s tombstone.

Tears threatened to spill again as he read her tombstone:

Rebecca Steam

2008-2025

Beloved daughter and friend–Gone too soon

He reached out, fingers brushing the smooth granite.

“Hold on, baby”, he whispered. “I’m coming for you.”

 Steam swallowed, holding back his grief. He had a job to do. 

And without another moment wasted, the doctor began to dig. 

Dirt stained his button-up, but he didn’t stop. Not when exhaustion nipped at his hands and shoulders. Not even when it began to rain. Now half muddy, the shovel finally hit the coffin. His fingers trembled at the clasp of the wooden box. The funeral home was able to put her back together as best as they could, but it wasn’t her. Not her bright eyes or vibrant skin in that box. Just a shell.

Steam braced himself. What happened next passed by in a blur. He lifted the body from the coffin, arms trembling beneath her unexpected weight. She was heavier now. More solid in death than she ever was in life. Haphazardly, he refilled the tomb, holding her gently to his chest. Dawn crept into, cold and unfeeling as he placed the body in the backseat and drove back home in a daze.

He got out of the car, leaving the body where it lay. 

Not yet—not until he could face what he’d done. 

The ethical rules he’d broken in the name of love.

He entered the house, fatigue leadening each step before dragging him down to the floor. His eyes fluttered shut, the lingering ache of dread fading at the edges of his consciousness. 

───────────────────────────────────────

CRACK!

Steam shot up, the crack of lightning snapping him back to consciousness. He groaned, joints screaming with ache. 

Remembrance crept back into his mind, as he recalled his nightly sin. The graveyard. The digging…the body. 

It was still in the car.

Steam slowly lifted himself from the floor, steadying himself as he made his way to the garage. Stumbling towards the car door, he paused. 

What if she’d already begun to rot? He could barely look at her during the funeral. Nausea roiled in his stomach at the thought of maggots feasting on Becca’s flesh.

Nevertheless, he swallowed his fear, hand trembling as he opened the door. 

There she was. 

His breath caught. She was still, lifeless. Trussed up in a simple but elegant black dress. Her skin had faded to a sickly green. Hair plaited, brittle with death. 

But it was her. Unmistakably Becca.

Steam gingerly picked up the body. The faint scent of roses and decay filled his nose.

He brought her inside, setting her down on the couch. Her skin was colder now—tight, waxy. His mind whirred with panic and that singular, terrible idea.

Dark circles bloomed beneath her eyes. Her lower body—misshapen. Her brain? Likely mush by now. 

Steam was talented, but this would take a miracle. 

Her body would always need fixing. Always failing. Always falling apart. Back and forth, he paced his living room until his eyes fixed upon something peculiar. 

Her journal. The last piece of her untouched by death. Still hers. Still warm with dreams. He grabbed it, desperately looking through its contents. While Becca never showed interest in her father’s medical work, she had a fascination with robotics. She was always tinkering with his beat up Chevy Cavalier, the toaster, and any metal thing she could get her hands on. 

His eyes welled with tears as he read the final entry: Sorry! Dad’s calling me for dinner. I gotta go. Bye bye! He quickly brushed the tears off his cheeks and began flipping through the previous pages to find something, anything that could clue him in on bringing her back. Alongside regular teenage musings, Becca had mock sketches of ideas for future robotic projects. A vacuum cleaner. A dog. His heart nearly stopped at the last one—A girl. 

He faltered. Once he began, there was no going back. There was still time to right his wrong. Steam looked back at the body that once held his daughter…and remembered. 

Her laughter at his corny jokes.

The floral fragrance of her favorite perfume.

The warmth of her hugs.

Dark determination bubbled through his blood as he made his decision. 

He’d already lost everything. 

He wasn’t going to let Death claim his daughter too. 

And so began his descent into madness.

Days bled into weeks as Steam poured over every journal entry and robotics manual, taking stock of Becca’s annotations while making his own. He wrapped her in linen soaked with preservation fluid, the scent acrid and clinging. It stung his nose, clinging to everything. But it slowed the rot. Just enough. 

She was fragile. Porcelain. Needed to be handled with care. Her body rested on an old operating table in the basement, surrounded by half finished blueprints, broken machine parts, and old photos of her. He visited her every morning as he nursed his coffee. Spoke to her. Adjusted the fans.

She was still here. She just needed a little more time.

Calls from the clinic, friends, and family went unanswered as Steam buried himself in his work. He used every organ still intact, spare bolt, and wire pulled from forgotten machines. Piece by piece, he rebuilt his daughter.

After months of tireless work, she was ready.

Steam placed the finishing touches on his Becca. He took her dark blue alarm clock, the one that played her favorite song, fastening it into her abdomen. He closed the panel gently and gazed upon her completed form. Copper glistened, bolts holding the metal plating together. A work of art in the form of a girl—his little sun, reforged in metal and grief. The greatest thing he’d ever done.

A mechanical whirr punctured the silence. Anticipation buzzed through him.

Please baby…come back to me.

Her fingers twitched. 

Steam leaned over her body, breath caught in his throat.

And then–

She opened her eyes.